Better Than English
by drjamband
Summary: Like "A Relationship in Ten Words," these are one shots based off of words that don't translate directly into English. Rating bumped up to M.
1. Tsundoku

**Hey everyone! I will update this as I find new words. I hope you all enjoy! Reviews appreciated! =)**_  
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* * *

_Tsundoku (Japanese)—The act of leaving a book unread after buying it, typically piling it up together with other such unread books._

* * *

John was late coming home from work. "You're late," Sherlock said, not turning away from the window.

"Yeah, I stopped at Foyles," John explained, referring to the bookstore on the south bank of the Thames.

"Mmm. What did you get this time?"

"Anna Karenina."

"Are you going to actually read it?"

"What do you mean by that?" John asked after a pause.

Sherlock spun around, finally diverting his gaze from the window. "I mean that you go to Foyles once a month, buy a book, put it on the shelf, and leave it there."

John opened his mouth, closed it, and stalked over to the bookshelf. There, piled on top of each other, were about ten books that hadn't been read. "Well it's not like you've read them either," John said, scrunching his nose.

Sherlock gave a snort. "Try not to be so dense, John." John raised an eyebrow. "I've read all of these books."

"When?" John asked incredulously.

"At university. I did have a life before you came along."

"I know," John returned lamely.

Sherlock strode over to the bookshelf and let his eyes rest on the spines of John's paperbacks. _Pride and Prejudice. The Great Gatsby. Ragtime._ "Ragtime. Interesting choice," Sherlock remarked.

"Yeah, uh…I guess," John replied, rubbing the back of his neck. Without warning, Sherlock grabbed the bag from John's hand and fished out the book, curling himself in the corner of the couch. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed. "You're not going to read it. I might as well," he explained shortly. John slumped in the armchair across from the couch, and Sherlock sighed again. "All happy families are alike;" he began, "each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." John smiled.


	2. Xingfu

_Xingfu (Chinese)—A sort of happiness or contentedness felt through having everything you want in life and/or not having any looming worries. It describes a long-term feeling about one's life situation rather than a happiness achieved through a singular outcome or situation._

* * *

Case-wise, it was a quiet day at 221B Baker Street. A few years ago, John would have abhorred a day like this. Sherlock would have been flopped on the couch like a beached squid, moaning about boredom and acting like a petulant child. But now it was different. John and Sherlock had gotten married seven years before, and, after two years of marriage, had adopted a son.

_After three days in the hospital, Sherlock and John brought their new son back to Baker Street. John scooped him out of his carrier and held him gently. "We still don't have a name," John said softly._

"_I know," Sherlock rumbled. "Wait!" he exclaimed, and they both flinched, but the baby didn't mind. "Why didn't I think of it before?"_

"_Think of what?" John asked, meeting his husband's eyes. _

_Sherlock smiled. "Hamish."_

"_My middle name."_

"_Obviously."_

"_I thought you didn't hear me say that."_

"_Why?"_

"_Well, you were so…focused on Irene."_

"_Oh, please, John. It was all part of the game. You were brilliant on that case, by the way." John furrowed his brow. "You…well….You saved me from myself, as trite as that is."_

_John smiled. "So…Hamish?" he said after a pause, knowing Sherlock didn't know what else to say._

_Sherlock walked over and looked down at his son. "Yes. Hamish."_

Hamish was now five, and was running around the flat on a Sunday morning. Once Hamish had come home with them, Sherlock had stopped experimenting on Sundays. "Fa!" Hamish shrieked, running into Sherlock's legs.

Sherlock swung his son up into the air and kissed him on the cheek. "Good morning, Hamish."

John plodded down the stairs and rubbed his eyes. "Daddy!" Hamish exclaimed.

John ran his hand over his son's head and kissed him. "Hello, love. Good morning," he added, sharing a kiss with Sherlock. John started to make omelets for the three of them, while Sherlock and Hamish looked through one of Sherlock's chemistry books.

Once breakfast was ready, the three of them sat down to eat, and after they were finished, Sherlock did the dishes while John and Hamish sat on the couch. John touched his finger to Hamish's forearm. "Radius." John touched again. "Ulna." He moved up his son's arm. "Humerus." Sherlock sat in the armchair across from them.

"Come join us," John said with a smile. Sherlock sat down behind Hamish, and the boy scampered into his father's lap. "Hamish, has Fa ever told you the story of the time we went to Boscombe Valley?"

Hamish shook his head, and Sherlock smiled. "Well, Uncle Greg called with the case of a Herefordshire land owner…." John got up and moved so he was curled on Sherlock's back, listened intently to his husband's deep voice, and grinned. Life was good. Life was very good.


	3. Ttonkolenyo

_Ttonkolenyo (Amharic, a Semitic language spoken in Ethiopia)—A person who spends all his time devising and setting up devious schemes from which he might benefit, usually at the expense of others._

* * *

**Meeting you at surgery at 5. Need your assistance regarding brother.—SH**

John frowned at the text. It was 4:30 now, and he had planned on just going home and relaxing, maybe watching some cricket, and enjoying the new Darjeeling tea he bought.

**Don't worry. Nothing strenuous.—SH**

John just shook his head and got ready to see his last patient.

* * *

John stepped onto the sidewalk just as a taxi pulled up. He rolled his eyes and got in. "Tesco, please," Sherlock instructed the driver.

"We're going to Tesco…for your brother?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled. "Yes. I'll explain it all once we're back at Baker Street." Once they arrived at the store, Sherlock thrust a shopping list into John's hands.

"You couldn't have gotten all this yourself?" John asked, skimming the list.

"I don't know where anything is in here."

John gave him a look. "They have _signs_ at every aisle!"

"Dull. It's much faster if you do it. You're here all the time."

"Yes, well, if you didn't—you know what? Forget it. Just stay here and try not to get into any trouble."

Fifteen minutes later, John had gotten all of Sherlock's ingredients and they were on their way home. Upon entering their flat, Sherlock grabbed the bag from John's hands and began working.

"What are you doing with all that stuff anyway?" John asked.

"Oh, it's the most delightful prank, John."

"You're playing a prank on Mycroft."

"Do keep up."

"You're a child. You are a bloody. Child. Why am I even surprised?"

"Did you say something?" Sherlock asked after John had left the room.

* * *

John walked in an hour later and found Sherlock with icing all over his hands and a cake that read "Happy 40th Mycroft" in blue icing. "I didn't know Mycroft was 40. Though I guess I never thought about his age. He seems like the type that'll just live forever."

Sherlock snorted. "Not with the way he eats combined with the exorbitant amount of stress he experiences on a daily basis."

"Well it's nice that you made him a cake."

"I didn't." John kept his mouth shut, waiting for Sherlock to explain. "What did we get at Tesco today, John?"

"Uhhh, icing, sprinkles, a sponge…."

"And what can you conclude?" Sherlock prompted.

John looked from his flatmate to the cake. "You made a fake cake?! Sherlock!"

"What? It's funny! You know, Mycroft being such a fat git and all. Oh, and add old to that." John just rolled his eyes.

When Mycroft arrived a few hours later, the kitchen had been cleaned to the best of John's ability, and the new Darjeeling was brewing. Sherlock looked away, seemingly uninterested, as John served the "cake," his hands steady despite the laughter bubbling inside him. John set the knife down at Mycroft's right hand. "Happy Birthday, Mycroft," he managed. They both looked expectantly at Sherlock.

"Hmm. Congratulations, dear brother, on surviving yet another dragging year."

"Thank you, Sherlock, for that depressing wish."

"Mmm," Sherlock replied.

Mycroft picked up the knife and slid it slowly into the food in front of him. Well, tried to, anyway. He found that the cake bowed under the knife's pressure, and he had to stick one palm in the icing in order to cut a piece. It was only when he was lifting his slice onto his plate that he saw the inside of the cake. His eyes bulged momentarily before he coughed with as much dignity as he could muster and set the plate down. "Really, boys, how _juvenile_," he drawled as Sherlock and John, who had been chuckling silently, erupted in full roars of laughter.

They both kept trying to explain, but their laughter rendered them utterly speechless. Mycroft stood up and stalked off without another word.


	4. Zhaghzhagh

_Zhaghzhagh (Persian)—The chattering of teeth from either cold or rage._

* * *

"Jesus Christ!" John shouted a split second after a deafening bang erupted throughout the flat. He raced from his bedroom toward the kitchen, which was almost entirely engulfed in flames. When he didn't see Sherlock he began to panic, but the emotion was short-lived as he saw his friend standing in the living room, expressionlessly watching the flames. "Sherlock, what the hell?!" John screeched.

"Long story short, some beakers may have broken and some chemicals may have mixed."

"MAY HAVE?! MAY HAVE?!"

Sherlock spun around, and John thought for a second that the fire made him look like some kind of rising phoenix. _Teeth chattering, but it's obviously not cold in here. Ah. Angry._ "You're angry."

John spluttered. "Of course I'm angry! Our flat is on fire!" _Oh shit. Our flat is on fire!_

"Sherlock! John! You in there?" Lestrade came running up the steps, throwing an arm over his eyes at the sight of the fire. "What the hell are you two doing?"

"Having a row!" John yelled.

"Yeah well you can do that outside. Come on!" The trio ran down the steps just as water rushed in and doused the flames, breaking the windows and knocking over the furniture in the process.

Outside, John stood in the freezing air with his arms wrapped around his waist, his teeth clacking together discordantly. "John, are you still angry? I really am sorry. It was a mistake. I promise I'll-."

"No, Sherlock, I'm not angry. I mean I am, but…you've done many a stupider thing, I think."

Sherlock furrowed his brow in that way he did when he couldn't believe something. "But your teeth are chattering."

John looked sideways at him. "I'm cold!"

"Ah."


	5. Avoir le mal de quelqu'un

**Sorry for the delay! It's been so long ahhh! Please let me know what you think! =D**_  
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* * *

_Avoir le mal de quelqu'un (French)—Missing someone so much it literally makes you sick. "Someonesickness," on the model of "seasickness."_

* * *

John was gone. Not for longer than a few days, but with the way Sherlock never slept, every day blended into one and before he knew it a week would go by with him just staring out the window. John was currently halfway through a two-week convention/seminar type gathering in Denmark, and Sherlock had discovered that he didn't feel particularly well.

It began on the fourth night that John was gone. Sherlock was watching some mindless program on TV when he felt his palms begin to sweat. He frowned and turned his attention back to the screen. But his plan of distracting himself lasted only a moment, as he felt his stomach turn and he coughed a gagging cough.

Sherlock ran through the possibilities of why he was sick: he hadn't eaten anything bad (he hadn't eaten), no noxious chemicals had been ingested or inhaled, and John certainly wasn't there to drag some virus home from the surgery and—_Oh. John._ John was the reason he was sick. Because John _wasn't there_. Sherlock missed John.

* * *

The following week was agony for Sherlock. He barely ate. He barely slept. He didn't experiment. His violin lay practically untouched. The couch had acquired a certain Sherlock-shaped dent in it. But when John arrived home from the airport, he didn't suspect anything to be wrong. He assumed Sherlock was just sulking. But when Sherlock lifted his head to meet John's eyes, John could see his friend had been crying. "Sherlock? Are you alright?"

"John," Sherlock croaked.

"Are you sick?" John asked, putting his hand to Sherlock's forehead.

"Yes. No. Not really." John quirked an eyebrow. "I haven't been feeling well for the past week, and I think it's because…well…because I missed you."

John didn't know what to say. "Well, um, I'm here now?" he offered.

Sherlock stood up and wrapped his arms around John. "Yes. Yes you are," he said factually. He instantly felt better.


	6. Ikigai

_Ikigai (Japanese)—"Reason for being." On the island of Okinawa, it is thought of as "a reason to get up in the morning," a philosophy which has been linked to the longevity of the people there._

* * *

There was a time when John wanted to die. After he'd gotten shot, when hot blood was searing his shoulder almost as much as the actual bullet wound was, and he was drifting in and out of consciousness, he'd used his last reserves of energy to pray for death. And then, when he'd been sent back to London, he still wished he was dead. Because anything—_anything_—would be better than that depressing cage of a room, his gun always within reach.

That _anything_ turned out to be a highly-functioning sociopath by the name of Sherlock Holmes. John was immediately drawn in by the wild curls, the eyes that were never still, the grace and litheness of that telephone pole body.

His time with Sherlock was the best he'd ever had. He had a reason to _live_ again. A reason to wake up, get dressed, and go out. A reason to be a better man.

But then Sherlock died. And once again John felt that despair, that longing to _just die_. But he knew Sherlock would frown upon him killing himself, taking the coward's way out. If there was one thing John wasn't, it was a coward. So every day he forced himself to stay alive, the only reason for his efforts being the fear of Sherlock's scorn, even in the afterlife.

So when Sherlock came back, he had never been happier to be alive. And when he and Sherlock became romantically involved, he had never been happier to be alive. And when he and Sherlock got married and adopted their son, he had never been happier to be alive.

John came down the steps one morning to find Sherlock and Hamish reading on the couch. "Good morning, John," Sherlock said with a small smile, his eyes shining.

"Are you…are you reading Agatha Christie?" John asked incredulously.

"It's Murder on the Links!" Hamish replied enthusiastically. "'There! Now we're friends!' declared the minx. 'Say you're so-.'"

Hamish was cut off by John grabbing the book from him. "Sherlock! How many times have we discussed appropriate reading material?!"

"Well you let him read Little Lord Fauntleroy!"

"It's a classic!"

"You know I hate that book!" Sherlock yelled, stomping his foot. And out of nowhere, John laughed. Hamish, utterly confused, decided to giggle along with him. "You're laughing," Sherlock observed. "Why?"

"Because I adore you, you git," John said around his laughter. Sherlock furrowed his brow and John grabbed him in a tight embrace. Letting go, he swung Hamish up into his arms and carried him the short distance to the kitchen. "Come on, love, it's time for breakfast."

Sherlock followed them after a moment, opening the fridge and pouring Hamish a glass of milk. When John took out a frying pan to see remnants of pig's blood still staining the surface, he sighed. He wouldn't have wanted to miss a second of this life.


	7. Weltschmerz

_Weltschmerz (German)—_Similar to world-weariness, but particularly applied to privileged young people.

* * *

Twenty-year-old Sherlock stood just outside one of the alcoves of Oxford's campus. A black wool coat was draped over his lanky body, and a navy blue scarf was wound tight around his neck. He lazily flicked the ashes of his cigarette to the pavement and sighed. He was so _bored_. His third semester was coming to a close and he still hadn't made any friends…not that he cared to. The real issue was that there was not one interesting person on the entirety of the campus.

A professor with wild white hair and a tan trench coat whisked by him. _Adulterer._ A boy in a West Ham jersey sniffed and rubbed his hand over his nose. _Coke addict_. A girl in a maroon thermal shirt and jeans. _Abused by her father_. A boy in a leather jacket. _Fancies his roommate_. Nothing was of interest. No one held any mystery. The sky seemed to turn gray as one word circled around in Sherlock's head: dull.

He had just stubbed out the last of his cigarette with a particularly expensive Grenson shoe and was turning back into the alcove when his phone rang. "What is it, Mycroft?" he answered.

"Can't a government official with nothing better to do check up on his little brother?" Mycroft replied, a smarmy smile just touching his lips.

"No," Sherlock replied shortly.

"Well then I'll introduce my purpose: Uncle Freddy's doing Christmas dinner this year. You are to arrive in Liverpool by train on the twenty-third. I've already booked your ticket."

"Then you've wasted your money."

"Now, Sherlock-."

But he was cut off. "You know how I abhor Uncle Freddy. It's the same thing every year: 'Sherlock, lad, still fooling around with that science rubbish? There's nothing in that, boy. You could be a great lawyer at my firm!' And then he gets drunk and flirts incessantly with Mrs. Davenport!"

"Be that as it may, I regret to inform you that you do not have a choice in the matter. Father will be home this year."

Sherlock bit his lip to keep from practically screaming in frustration. "You regret nothing, you fat git," he snapped before he hung up.

* * *

Two days later he was lugging his suitcase onto the train and slumping in his seat. Someone sat down across from him and Sherlock positioned his book in front of his face, hoping to deter the person from starting a conversation. "Hello." _No such luck then_.

Sherlock moved the book down a few inches and narrowed his eyes. The man across from him was a few years older than Sherlock, twenty-three or twenty-four judging by his face and the lines around his eyes, though he was small in stature. "Hello," Sherlock replied.

The man glanced at the cover of Sherlock's book. "Heart of Darkness. I love that one."

"You've read it?" Sherlock asked, surprised.

"Yeah, just last year. Sorry, I'll let you get back to it."

"No, that's OK." This man was…_intriguing_. Sherlock wanted more. "Where are you going?"

"Liverpool," the man said with a smile. "Going to my Aunt Rita's for Christmas. You?"

"The same. Though obviously I'm not going to your Aunt Rita's."

The man laughed and Sherlock frowned. He hadn't meant for it to be a joke. "I'm John Watson," he said, sticking out his hand.

Sherlock met it slowly. "Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

They spent the entire train ride talking. John was fascinated by Sherlock's intelligence and quick wit, and Sherlock was fascinated with John's fascination. He had never before received so much positive attention for his abilities, and John convinced him to spend half the ride deducing the life of a couple in their mid-thirties, much to John and Sherlock's delight.

Sherlock was intrigued by John as well. He seemed caring, genuine, and more intelligent than he gave himself credit for. He was training to be a doctor, and he wanted to join the army. He didn't laugh at Sherlock's dream of being a detective, and he was really interested in Sherlock's thoughts.

So it was with a mutual sadness that they parted ways at the station in Liverpool, Sherlock heading for a sleek black car and John going to the bus stop. "Um," John started awkwardly. "Here's my number. You know, if you want to…call. Or whatever."

Sherlock took the scrap of paper. "I prefer to text." John frowned. "But…perhaps I will. Text you, that is." John smiled and nodded, and Sherlock stepped into the waiting car.

* * *

Later that night, Sherlock sat cross-legged on one of the guest beds in his uncle's house, the orange glow of the desk lamp his only illumination. The little paper lay by his knee; his phone sat in his hands. He carefully typed in John's number and stared at the blank screen for a moment before beginning his message. **Would you like to come over for Christmas dinner? It'll be incredibly boring, and everyone is fat and droll, but you might make it…tolerable.—SH**

John smiled as he read the unexpected message. **That'd be great, thanks.—JW**

One corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched into a smile. Things were going to be a little less dull from now on.


	8. Resfeber

__**Thanks for all the follows/favorites! Reviews would be excellent! Thanks and enjoy!**

* * *

_Resfeber (Swedish)—To be jittery before undertaking a journey._

Sherlock knew something was wrong with John. Of _course_ he knew. John was practically shaking when they got the call. Lestrade was already there, waiting for them. A body had been found shoved inside one of those tube slides at a playground in Eastbourne.

Sherlock jumped off the couch in excitement, almost landing on the coffee table and breaking a mug of tea. "This is _brilliant_, John! Absolutely brilliant! Come on, Lestrade's sent a car for us." John wrung his hands, cold sweat slicking between his palms. He grabbed his coat and slung his arms through it, but as soon as he had it on he had to take it off. "John?" Sherlock asked.

"Too hot," John explained. He gagged once before vomiting on the rug.

"John! What's wrong?"

John wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "I think I might stay home," he said miserably. Sherlock just furrowed his brow, and John knew in that moment Sherlock thought he was an idiot. "I, um…I don't want to go."

Sherlock blinked. "Nonsense, John. I need you!"

"No, Sherlock, really, I-." A horn blared on Baker Street and Sherlock ran down the steps and flung open the front door. _Well, that was easy,_ John thought.

"Just wait one bloody second!" Sherlock screamed at the driver before flying back up the steps. "What's wrong, John?" he asked, stepping closer to his friend. "Please tell me."

John looked up, surprised. Sherlock looked so…open. "I'm from Eastbourne."

"You told me you were from Witney." Of course Sherlock wouldn't question the complete change in topic.

"Well, yeah, that's where I grew up. We only lived in Eastbourne 'til I was five. Anyway, one day my family and my neighbors all went to the beach. They had a son, Joey, who was my age, and we were playing together. The water was pretty rough, but Mr. Monahan, my neighbor, suggested we swim. My parents wouldn't let me go in, but Mr. Monahan and Joey, well…long story short, they drowned. It was awful. It's one of my only memories of living there."

Sherlock wanted to say something. He wanted to tell John that this Mr. Monahan and his son were idiots for swimming in the rough channel. That John's parents were right for not letting him go in. And then a thought came to his mind: What if John's parents had let him go? What if John had drowned too? The last few years of Sherlock's life would have been…different, to say the least. He couldn't say with certainty that he'd even be alive. He lunged forward and wrapped John in a hug. "It's OK, John," he whispered.

John hugged him back, a little surprised, but mostly grateful. "Thanks, Sherlock."

They pulled apart. "If you don't want to go…that's alright."

John smiled and clapped Sherlock on the back, sending Sherlock's torso pitching forward. "It's OK, mate. You need me, remember?" Sherlock smiled back at him and they grabbed their coats.

* * *

Finally sitting in the back of the car, John's eyes suddenly widened and he turned to Sherlock. "We never cleaned up the vomit on the rug."

Sherlock's head bopped back against the headrest. "I was hoping you wouldn't remember."

"Sherlock, how could I forget puking when it was not even fifteen minutes ago?!"

"Well, I've certainly deleted it."

"Of course you did, you machine." Sherlock's head whipped towards John, but he smiled when he saw John was joking. "But seriously, what are we going to do about it?"

"Call Mrs. Hudson?"

"Sherlock!"

"I'll take that as a no, then."

"Damn right you'll take that as a no."

"Shall we call Mycroft?"

John grinned. "You've always been the brains of this friendship, Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock pulled out his phone.


	9. Fensterln

_Fensterln (German)-Climbing through a window to avoid someone's parents in order to have sex with the someone without the parents knowing._

* * *

John hated the tube this time of night. The trains came in times too far apart for him to feel particularly safe waiting in the station if he missed one. And the people seemed drugged and dazed, like the train car was in some sort of suspended time and place where everything didn't quite stop, but was slow and uninteresting. But John endured because he had good reason for being out so late at night: Sherlock. He'd met Sherlock in Year Eleven when John's family moved and he had started attending the same school as Sherlock, after which they both began at Harrow College.

Sherlock had been John's best friend from day one. John, being new, didn't know anybody, and Sherlock, being Sherlock, didn't like anybody. And so it worked out that two friendless people found each other in the library one day, both fighting over a Physicians' Desk Reference they wanted to check out.

Two years of friendship had slowly but surely built feelings in John that he could not ignore. He'd come to the conclusion that he was in love with his insane best friend, but, knowing Sherlock, John had no hope that the boy felt the same. Well, until Sherlock confronted him about it.

John was sitting out on one of the fields during a free period when he saw the rustle of a black coat out of the corner of his eye and felt a whoosh of air as Sherlock sat down next to him. John didn't even bother to mention that Sherlock was skipping his chemistry class. "John?"

"Mmm," John answered distractedly.

"John, I don't want to alarm you, but I am aware of your...feelings towards me."

John tried to remain casual as he turned his head towards Sherlock. "Well, yeah, you're my best friend. Thought that was obvious."

Sherlock looked towards his friend, catalogued his shaky smile and shallow breathing. "John."

John sighed and his shoulders drooped. "I'm not even going to ask how you found out."

"Simple observances."

John rubbed his head. "I'm sorry. It won't be a problem, honest, Sherlock. Please don't feel weird about this. Honest, I-."

"I don't feel weird about it, John. In fact, I feel quite the contrary." John furrowed his brow. What exactly was the opposite of weird? "You see but you do not observe," Sherlock continued, and John almost laughed at the familiarity of the phrase among the unknown territory they were in. "Now, John, tell me what you observe."

John looked intently at his friend. Pupils dilated. Breathing slightly labored. Right hand twitching. "You...feel the same?" One corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up into a smile.

* * *

So now John was approaching the veritable castle of a house that was Point of Woods, an apt name for it considering a stretch of backyard led to acre upon acre of forest. John dashed to the side of the house and stood under the window on the far left, having texted Sherlock that he had arrived.

He caught sight of Sherlock's silhouette against the window before said window was carefully pulled open and a fold-up ladder that people kept in case of fire was lowered, hitting the dew-drenched grass with a soft noise. John eagerly climbed up and hauled himself through Sherlock's window. He barely had time to get his feet on the floor before Sherlock's mouth was on his. John vaguely registered cold air hitting his back before Sherlock broke away and carefully shut the window. "We'll have to be extra careful tonight." John raised an eyebrow. "Mycroft's visiting." John rolled his eyes, earning him a stifled giggle from Sherlock.

* * *

The worst thing about these nighttime visits wasn't the lying to their parents, or the unsettling tube rides, or even the possibility of being caught. It was the lack of light. It was that although their eyes adjusted to the dark, they could never really see each other. John might miss one of Sherlock's lopsided smiles, and Sherlock might miss the way John pursed his lips when Sherlock touched John's sensitive neck.

Yet in a way the darkness was exciting. Feelings were heightened, and the mystery excited both boys. Over time they had learned to wear easy clothes: no buttons, zippers, snaps, or strings. Sherlock was wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt, both of which came off easily. John had to wear sweatpants so as not to look completely insane on the tube, but he remained shirtless under his Chelsea FC sweatshirt.

It was their rule that whoever made the trip got to top. The boys stumbled over their memorized path to the bed that would have been worn into the carpet if it wasn't so plush and John rested on his knees while Sherlock flopped onto his back. "Hurry up," Sherlock whined, and John grinned.

"Patience is a virtue," John whispered in his ear.

"Oh, John. What we're doing is anything but virtuous." With that John wrapped his hands around Sherlock's slim waist and pushed inside. Sherlock muffled his moan by pushing his face into a pillow. John sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and pulled out slowly before pushing back in. "Faster. Harder," Sherlock whimpered, and John complied. The squeaking of the mattress was relatively quiet, especially because the room was so big and the walls of the house were so thick. However, they'd had to move Sherlock's bed far enough from the wall to keep the headboard from slamming into it with every thrust.

"God. Sherlock," John whispered brokenly, resting his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder.

"John," Sherlock whispered back, reaching down to grip his own cock.

"Oh, Sherlock, you know I can't take it when you do that," John told him, squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught of arousal that threatened to end their encounter.

"Come for me, John. I-." Sherlock broke off with an almost yelp-like sound as he emptied himself. Sherlock's moan seemed to vibrate throughout his and John's bodies, and John felt all control slip from him as he followed Sherlock.

After they both stopped panting and willed themselves to move, John got off the bed so Sherlock could change the sheets. They laid in bed for a relaxing twenty minutes before John kissed Sherlock and got up to put on his clothes. After he was dressed, he leaned over and buried his face in Sherlock's hair. "I love you, Sherlock."

"I love you too, John," the other boy said back.

"I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course." He watched John open the window and unfurl the ladder before starting to climb down. Right before his head disappeared beneath the window, John looked up and gave a smile and a wave. Wet grass seeped into his shoes and socks as he landed on the ground, but he didn't care. He made sure Sherlock had the ladder up and the window shut before he ran off towards the tube.


	10. Yoisho

_Yoisho (Japanese)-What Japanese people say after they flop into a chair after a hard day at work, where others might just exhale or grunt loudly._

* * *

John arrived at the steps leading up to number 221 at 5:15 pm. He'd had an extremely long day, and all he wanted was to sit in his chair with a cup of tea and maybe listen to Sherlock play the violin.

He heard a car pull up behind him and the slam of a door before it sped off. He was just about to start up the stairs when out of the corner of his eye he spotted a pale white figure. Not sickly pale like someone's skin tone, or transparent pale like a ghost. No, it looked as if this person had been _painted white_.

He jumped in surprise and let out a little gasp before meeting the person's eyes. "Sherlock?" Sherlock just stared back. He had what looked like flour dumped all over him, catching in his curls and sticking to his shirt.

They just stared at each other, John questioningly and Sherlock daring him to demand an explanation, before Sherlock made a sweeping gesture with his arm. "After you." John nodded and unlocked the door for both of them before leading the way to their door.

Once inside, John flopped right into his armchair, letting out a long-suffering sigh as he did so. Sherlock basically belly-flopped onto the couch, letting out a pitiful groan as he put his face to the pillow. John didn't have the energy to stop him. Mrs. Hudson would not be happy.

"So..." John started. "How was your day?"

Sherlock slowly turned his head to the right so he could look at his friend. "Thwarted an attempted poisoning at Primrose Bakery."

"That the really girly one on Tavistock?"

"The very same. One of the bakers managed to wrestle me out the kitchen door, but not before he pushed me into a pile of flour bags." John winced. "Worst part was there was a children's birthday party going on. I haven't heard so much screaming since our nanny Martha took me and Mycroft to Hamleys on a Saturday afternoon." John chuckled. "I hit my head on the edge of the counter, though," Sherlock continued, reaching up to rub the spot.

"I better check it out, then," John replied, already moving from his chair to get the first aid kit.

"It's quite alright, John. I'm sure it's nothing."

"Said the man who thought the same thing about four broken ribs." Sherlock's only reply was a "hmph" sound. He relaxed as he felt John's steady fingers moving his hair aside and gingerly touching the skin beneath. "I don't think there's anything to worry about. Let me just shine this light in your eyes." When Sherlock's pupils reacted accordingly, John packed everything away and handed him an ice pack.

Sherlock offered him a smile. "How was your day?"

John's head snapped back around. "Maybe I shouldn't rule out concussion just yet."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, John. I'm merely asking how your day went. That's what friends do, yes?"

John sat back in his chair. "Well work was fine. But on my lunch break I went to that Indian place around the corner from the surgery, and I was just about to leave when this woman shrieks. Turns out her water broke. I had to talk her through the breathing and everything until the ambulance came."

"So you didn't have to deliver the baby then?"

John chuckled. "No, thank God. I haven't done any of that sort of thing since my rotations in med school. I'm surprised I even remembered what to do."

"Nonsense, John. You're an excellent doctor. I'm sure you would have done a fine job." John was practically beaming. "Don't look _too_ pleased with yourself. Just last week you thought Lestrade was having a heart attack when he really pulled a muscle in his arm."

John let out an indignant noise. "To be fair, the symptoms are the same! And anyway it's better to be safe than sorry."

"He was clearly on a new workout routine. You didn't notice the way his jacket didn't quite fit around the shoulders?"

"No, because I'm not obsessed with our friend's body."

"Neither am I!" Sherlock grabbed the Union Jack pillow and threw it. "Tosser."

John threw it back. "Git." The two men then slumped in their seats, exhausted, and fell asleep.


	11. Kyoikumama

_Kyoikumama (Japanese)-Literally translated as "education mother." Refers to the stereotypical Japanese mother who pushes her children far too hard with schoolwork._

* * *

"So that's it, then. The daughter killed the mother because the mother pushed her too hard," John said.

"That's it," Lestrade confirmed. "The daughter just snapped under the pressure. School, athletics, music...it was all too much."

"I think we get the point," Sherlock snapped. "We don't need your constant blabbering." Sherlock snapped his coat as he stormed away.

"What was that all about?" Lestrade asked.

John shrugged. "You got me there."

* * *

John shrugged off his coat and hung it on the coatrack as Sherlock pulled his coat over his legs and landed with a thump on the couch. "You going to tell me what's got you in a strop?"

"I'm not in a strop! And there's nothing to talk about."

"Right."

"I can understand when you're using sarcasm, John."

John just sighed and moved to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. "You want one?" he called out, and wasn't surprised when he received no reply.

* * *

They were watching an episode of Ripper Street, the room completely dark except for the spooky glow of the TV. Sherlock would occasionally make comments on how stupid the detectives were, but they lacked his usual conviction and bravado. John kept silent, actually enjoying the show without Sherlock constantly talking over it.  
A commercial advertising an insurance company came on, and Sherlock turned to John. John instinctively muted the volume. "My mother pushed me." John remained silent. "Mycroft was fiercely intelligent, obviously, and my parents adored him. They were content to just be their little family: Mother, Father, and Mycroft. Mycroft never needed to be told to do his homework, or get ready for polo practice, or to mind his manners."

Sherlock sighed. "Then I came along. Sherlock, the unexpected child. I was intelligent, obviously, but not as intelligent as Mycroft. And I never did what I was told. And that just made my mother push harder. And since Mycroft didn't need any push, all of her attention was focused on me. She would lock me in my room and make me study for hours, which I didn't mind so much, but if I felt I understood the material, she never believed me. She hated my love of chemistry. She wanted me to go into law." He snorted. "And though I love the violin now, I absolutely hated the lessons. My instructor was a gruff, older man named Ruslan. Everything he said was said in a yell."

"He must have been a good teacher, though," John offered. It was the first time he had spoken since the beginning of Sherlock's monologue.

"Yes. He was very technically proficient. Very demanding. Anyway, Mother also had me learn French. Three times a week for two hours each, Marcel would tutor me. He would speak exclusively in French, from the first lesson. But I did become fluent rather quickly because of that. Although I excelled in everything Mother threw at me, she was never satisfied. Mycroft took up her whole heart. I learned practically from birth that I didn't fit in. That no matter how good I was, someone would be better."

"But you're the best, Sherlock!" John interjected, desperate to convince his friend he was the most brilliant, most interesting, most dedicated person John had ever met. "You're the best at what you do!"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"So what does your mum have to say about that?"

Sherlock turned his head to face John again. "She doesn't. We haven't spoken since I graduated university."

"But Mycroft-."

"Passes on her regards. There are never any questions, never any interest. We both do the minimum required to keep up the appearance that we're a family. It wouldn't do to have the Holmeses scandalized."

"I'd hardly call your relationship with your mum a scandal."

Sherlock didn't speak for a moment. "My parents are sheltered people, John. They live within the boundaries of the rich; of possessions and social constructs and Gatsby-esque parties. It was one of the main reasons I detested living there. It's true that I didn't like being forced into suits and making conversations with my father's business partners and my mother's housewife friends who seemed to exist solely to gossip, but I also hated my parents' view of the world. They abhorred the middle and lower classes. They didn't seem to care about the world beyond how it would affect them. They had no understanding of what it must be like for anyone that wasn't them or Mycroft."

John didn't know what to say. He couldn't really say anything. He had always felt that sadness in his chest when someone called Sherlock "freak" or sneered at him and talked behind his back. But this was something else. This was Sherlock's _family_ doing this. Emotionally abusing a young boy with no remorse. John didn't have the best relationship with his family now, especially not with Harry, but when he was young he considered himself a happy child. His family was very supportive; he didn't think he would have had the courage to become a doctor without them.

But above his sadness, John was so very proud of Sherlock, and he told him so. "I don't have anything to say, Sherlock." He half-expected Sherlock to make some comment on his intelligence, but he looked almost grateful. "But, Sherlock...I'm proud of you. You are the best at what you do, and you save lives and catch killers and...and you're my best friend." Sherlock started to smile. "I'm sorry for what your family did. But I think you turned out just fine." The corner of Sherlock's mouth hiked up, and John smiled back before turning his attention to Ripper Street. "Now tell me everything that's wrong with this episode." And Sherlock did, because he knew John would actually listen.


	12. Koev halev

_Koev halev (Hebrew)-Identifying with the suffering of another so closely that one hurts oneself, that one's heart aches._

* * *

It was a Tuesday. John was at the surgery for another three hours. Sherlock had been practicing Mendelssohn, but was having particular trouble with the triplets starting in measure 25, though he'd never had any real trouble with them before. If you'd told him it was because he could sense that something was wrong, it would have scoffed. But maybe he did know.

It didn't matter. Whether he knew it or not, it would not change the fact that something was about to happen to Sherlock. The call came at 2:09 in the afternoon. Sherlock knew because no one except Lestrade called (everyone else texted), and Lestrade was currently in Wales. "To what do I owe this rare pleasure, Mycroft?" Sherlock said by way of greeting.

"Mother is dead." Sherlock nearly dropped the phone. He couldn't speak, couldn't verbalize the questions his mind was asking. However, the benefit of having Mycroft Holmes as a brother was apparent then. "Her plane crashed on the way to Switzerland to visit Aunt Mitzi. The pilot survived."

"I don't give a fuck about the pilot!" Sherlock shouted, surprising himself and Mycroft.

The door opened and John sauntered through, cheeks red from the cold, broad grin on his face. "I told Sarah I'd bring her Mr. Dade's old files so I'm just-Sherlock?"

Sherlock was panting, his phone clutched tightly in his hand. His shoulders were slightly hunched, and John spotted his lower lip trembling. Sherlock snapped the phone shut and dropped it, where it landed on the throw rug with a small clatter. He turned slowly towards his friend, his face the epitome of a lost, confused soul. "Mother is dead," he said, repeating Mycroft's earlier words. And as if him saying it aloud made it real, Sherlock dropped to his knees and began to cry.

He took shuddering breaths, desperately trying to calm himself, as John rushed over and knelt down in front of him. John noticed Sherlock trying to hold back, trying to remain composed for fear of being judged. "Hey," John said softly, wrapping his hand lightly around Sherlock's upper arm. "It's OK." And Sherlock started sobbing. He knew John wasn't just saying what he said to be supportive, like in that cliché "everything will be fine" kind of way. He was saying that it was OK to cry. John would never tell anyone. John would never judge.

John felt his heart physically hurt when he took Sherlock in his arms. Every sob out of Sherlock's mouth and every tear he could feel on the bare skin of his neck made the pain worse until he realized he was crying as well. The revelation wasn't shocking. He knew what it was like to lose a mother. "She...her plane crashed. Going to Switzerland to visit my aunt." That was all Sherlock could say at the time, as he broke down into even harder sobs, gasping and clutching John's jacket until all of his fingers felt like one giant ball of pain.

A short time later Sherlock sat back on his heels and wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve. John handed him a monogrammed handkerchief and waited. "I shouldn't be sad. This is ridiculous. She...she didn't even love me! She loved Mycroft. Only Mycroft. I was an accident. A nuisance. A problem." For a fraction of a moment, Sherlock's eyes met John's, and John had never seen his friend's eyes so clear. The tears still pooled in them made them look almost transparent, and John barely held back a gasp. Sherlock took a steadying breath, and John was just about to offer him some tea, when Sherlock started on a fresh round of crying, doubling over, gasping and heaving, and John didn't hesitate to hug him again. "I didn't know it would hurt this bad," Sherlock confessed.

"I know, Sherlock," John answered, placing a tiny kiss in his friend's hair. "I really do."

After the crying stopped and Sherlock was blessedly asleep, limp in John's grasp, John picked up his impossibly underweight friend and carried him to bed. He laid Sherlock in the soft white sheets, and rested his hand on the protruding angle of Sherlock's hip. "Call if you need anything," he whispered, more to himself than to Sherlock.

But Sherlock had always been a light sleeper. "OK," he whispered.

John nodded and lightly pushed off Sherlock's body, leaving the door open a crack. But instead of heading to his own room, John sat down outside Sherlock's door. He knew Sherlock would need him tonight.


	13. K'velen

_K'velen, also seen as kvellen or kvell (Yiddish)-To beam with joy, burst with pride, glow with pride and happiness, particularly when boasting about the achievements of a family member._

* * *

"En garde. Pret. Allez." There was a clatter and an almost shrill beeping. "Attack no." A touch of the index finger to the head and then a point to the right. "Attack from my left is good. Ten, five. En garde. Pret. Allez." The squeak of shoes on a gym floor mixed with shouting and the sound of blades making contact before the shrill beeping began again. "Attack from my right is good. Ten, six."

"Come on, Hamish! You can do it!" John shouted. Sherlock sat stoically beside him, elbows propped on his knees and hands folded under his chin. He seemed to all the world like an unaffiliated spectator, just there because he loved the sport. But John knew Sherlock was nervous. He could see it in the way Sherlock's tongue kept poking out to wet the skin under his bottom lip and in the way he would hold his hands as if he were praying, close his eyes, and sigh every time Hamish got a point.

The three of them had flown to Croatia for Hamish to compete in the Cadet World Championships. When he'd qualified, Mrs. Hudson had cried. So had Sherlock. Just a little.

Hamish had always been a passionate and curious child, which meant he, much like Sherlock, would be absolutely unstoppable when it came to something he really liked. He would fly around the flat, smile on his face, talking about this or that and rarely paying attention to where he was going. So after a particularly scary moment where Hamish knocked over a thankfully empty beaker and then almost stepped in the resulting shards, John and Sherlock decided to put his energies to a more productive use. Leave it to Sherlock to suggest fencing.

Hamish was 12 when they suggested it, and now he was going on 17 and was ranked the number five sabre in the cadet division of England. From the second Hamish tried the sport, he loved it. He never stopped smiling while he was fencing, and he talked about it constantly. John, of course, knew nothing about the sport, but became determined to learn everything he could. He Googled terms and watched videos and asked Hamish all sorts of questions, which Hamish was more than happy to answer-with a smile of course.

And now they were sitting in some surprisingly nice chairs in a surprisingly nice sports center, following every advance and retreat, every disengage and parry with eyes that had been well-trained over the past five years.

Hamish had beaten a rather enthusiastic German boy to get to the gold medal bout, and was now up against a rather severe-looking Ukrainian boy, whose mustached coach would bark things at him with a red face. John grimaced as the man yelled something else, accompanied by a hand motion that looked suspiciously like he was telling the kid to shove his weapon down Hamish's throat.

After the director's "allez," the Ukrainian boy went for Hamish's head, (_Ah, so that was what the coach was saying...I think_, John thought), but Hamish was well-prepared, easily parrying and reposting. Eleven to six. Hamish scored the next point with a counter attack, which had Sherlock surprised, proud, and shaking his head in slight dismay. He told his son _repeatedly_ not to risk it with a counter attack, especially in this bout. But, in true teenager form, Hamish didn't listen. Twelve to six. The Ukrainian boy went on a little scoring spree, scoring three in a row. Hamish wisely took a timeout.

"He's fine, Sherlock," John said, noticing the other man ruffling his curls in agitation.

"Mmm," Sherlock mumbled back.

The timeout did Hamish well, as he scored two points quickly, one on a perfectly executed beat attack that had even the Ukrainian coach raising his eyebrows in appreciation. "One more, Hamish," John said to himself, jiggling his knee. "Come on."

"En garde. Pret. Allez." Hamish sprung forward, making his attack. It was parried, and John squeezed Sherlock's thigh hard enough to bruise.

"John, stop!" He swatted at the hand.

"Shh," John answered, watching as Hamish stepped back and parried as well. Hamish went forward, and the other boy counter attacked. John sucked in a breath, praying Hamish's attack landed. It did. All John heard was the director saying the attack from his left was good, and then he was jumping up and cheering, hugging Sherlock with all his might.

For all of Hamish's enthusiasm, he wasn't one to fall dramatically to his knees and rip off his mask. He just saluted, shook hands, and then waved to John and Sherlock with a grin.

They came running down the steps, John getting there first and engulfing his son in a hug. "You were brilliant!" he cried, hugging Hamish again.

"Thanks, Dad," Hamish responded, starting to feel a little weary and sagging against John. They broke apart and Hamish saw Sherlock with tears on his cheeks. "Fa? Is something wrong?" he asked concernedly.

Sherlock smiled and shook his head. "Nothing's wrong," he whispered. "I'm just proud of you." He hugged his son hard and turned to whisper in his ear. "You didn't listen to me about the counter attack."

Hamish pulled away. "It worked!" he argued, smiling.

"Yes," Sherlock responded, kissing his son on the forehead. "Now go get your medal." Hamish nodded and hurried off to the podium.

Sherlock and John thought they would burst from pride all throughout God Save The Queen. Sherlock never thought he could care so much for one other person, let alone two. When John called Mrs. Hudson to tell her the news, they thought the resulting scream could be heard all across Europe. _Yes,_ thought Sherlock. _I agree._

* * *

**So I'm going to define the terms here the best I can:**

**sabre-One of three fencing weapons, using cutting/slashing motions.**

**En garde/pret/allez-"On guard/ready/go," said at the start of each new point. The English equivalent is "En garde/fencers ready/fence."**

**attack-In sabre, one fencer has the "right of way," meaning even if the other fencer touches them, it will not count if the first fencer's attack is "good." When an attack fails, the director says, "Attack no."**

**counter attack-When the person without the right of way attacks. Only counts if the other person's attack doesn't land or they make no move to actually attack.**

**parry-Blocking an opponent's attack with your blade. There are eight parries in total, but sabre uses only four.**

**beat attack-A quick attack, almost always (if not always) to the person's wrist, delivered in a flicking motion.**

**In regular competition, the first fencer to 15 wins. In high school it is the first to 5.**


End file.
